Dutch Treat
by fuzzybluelogic
Summary: A teaser for my upcoming NightcrawlerCentric AUish fic. Enjoy.


The pink sugary disc looked so—innocently candy like. A simple quarter-sized piece of confection, with a black stripe circling the circumference of treat...a treat offered with as sweet as a smile as the candy looked with its friendly artificial pinkness.

A smile--though owned by the resident "Nice Guy" of the Mansion—that had _fangs_.

"It's called a UFO," Kurt said encouragingly, the candy sparkling invitingly from inside the open white bag. He gestured toward a cardboard box—a care-package from his circus "family"...everyone had donated something—that sat in the middle of the kitchen table, filled with a variety of gifts and treats from the dozens of cultures that populated the Greatest Show In Rural Germany. "It's Finnish." He added. "One of our acrobats is from Finland...these are his favourites."

Scott looked at the sack, and then looked over Bobby, who leaned against the counter and nibbled at his square bar of Ritter Sport Rum, his expression seemed to be lost in the enjoyment of fine German chocolate, as he was absorbed in reading the back of a box of French biscuits.

Scott tried to remember what he knew of the Finnish.

Herring. Herring and lakes.

Jean stood behind Kurt, popping what looked like pink marshmallow mushrooms (or little hats—depending on how you looked at them) into her mouth. Her lips had a slight pinkish stain. It looked like she'd tried one herself.

Kurt tossed a black coin of licorice into his mouth. Scott repressed a shudder. He didn't know how people could eat that strong unsweetened ...stuff. He hated black licorice. He even hated the relatively benign black jelly beans from all his previous Easter Baskets until he'd tried what _Kurt_ called licorice. Than he knew true evil...in it's purest, filling ripping, soul defiling form.

"Licorice" so horrific it could only be described as Lovecraftian. Only with more salt and less tentacles.

And possibly poisonous.

Bobby was humming something, it sounded familiar. Something from a soundtrack. Something...from Avenue Q. It itched at the back of mind, he'd heard it...just couldn't place it.

But, it was _Bobby_, maybe the chocolate made him think of metrosexual muppets and Gary Coleman. Who knew?

The candy was _pink_. And pink was the colour of innocence.

Right?

Scott shrugged and reached into the bag, noticing with a growing sense of paranoia how Jean leaned in, her eyes widening...the chewing of her confectionery fungus slowing slightly. Kurt just helped himself to some pinkish-orange hard candy. "Turkish Peppers." He said, holding one up. "You probably wouldn't like it."

Oh. Kurt was a trustworthy guy. He just warned him off something that had one of those "I am a Candy of Big Hurty Death" names.

"Thanks." Scott said slowly, plucking a "UFO" from the offered sack. Kurt leaned back, chewing his Turkish Pepper, his elfish face betraying nothing but a slight frown as he dug through his box, rooting around for some specific delicacy. "Finnish, huh?"

"Mmm-hmm."

As he raised it to his lips, Jean's face twitched, her jaw tightening and there was a suspicious glimmer in her eyes. Which were suddenly _watering_.

Scott's fingers froze, the candy mere millimeters from his mouth.

The pink sugar on her lips...

"Bobby? Have you had one of these?" Scott glanced over at one of his supposed best friends.

"Yup." Bobby looked up from his cookie box, "It's sour. Kind of like a Warhead." He stuck out his pink tongue. "Really sour."

"Oh." He could do sour. Scott popped it into his mouth just as Jean scooted back, her hand whipping out to grip Kurt's shoulder—assuring her get-a-way ride—he'd realize later.

Everything slowed down to nothing but THE SOUR as Scott's taste receptors attempted to explode and implode at the same time. There were no words to describe the flavour, other than his tongue was being sandblasted by bright pink napalm, but without the cheery gasoline taste to add relief.

Through haze of his suffering and flailing of limbs, he noticed the gleam of the icy coating on Bobby's tongue. Who'd cheated.

Then THE FOAMING began. Drain-o. The thing had to have been coated in Drain-o.

Which bubbled from his bottom lip in a bright pink froth.

As his head tried to turn itself inside out from the sheer mind-blowing intensity of the true meaning of _sour_, suddenly there was a burst of intensely foul tasting salt. Salt that was thick with a strong—very strong—_almost_ licorice flavored agony.

"Just chew it!" Bobby said helpfully...and he did. He bit down. And then Bobby had to die. Scott tried to kill him.

With his mind.

Failing to develop telepathy, Scott just tried to spit it out, but he couldn't pry his jaw open.

The sour started to be entwined with the salty-salt deviltry of the Evil Death that was filling his mouth with spit and the beginnings of a scream. "Glaaaaaargh!" He managed, as pinkish brown ichor (and ichor was the only word for it) dribbled down his chin. UFO. Unholy Fatality Orally. Holy God, was that his **life** speeding across his vision...?

Oh look, it ended with a double-homicide.

Jean made a triumphant noise, Kurt dropped a pile of chocolate bars, grabbed his bag and box, and Bamfedwhile the Bamfing was good—Jean in tow.

Scott gurgled despairingly at the fading purple smoke.

"Salmiak." Bobby said helpfully, "It's a salted licorice with Ammonium Chloride. It's like the Vegemite of the Nordic World. No one outside of Europe can eat the stuff without a life altering experience...it's been known to cause Post Traumatic Stress Disorder." Bobby rinse his frozen mouth with a glass of water, washing away the remnants of the candy he hadn't tasted at all. "And UFO's are coated in a super sour powder. I guess they're still mad at you about that Mission in the sewer..." He smiled. "Ya know, like I am."

Scott would have sighed, had his vocal cords not shrunken into useless bits of withered flesh. Instead he grabbed a kitchen towel and scrubbed at his teeth and tongue.

When he looked up, Bobby was gone. Vanished like a ninja.

Mutinous bastard.

It wasn't his fault that the tunnel he sent them to was filled with raw sewage and really big rats.

And that some of the rats could walk on hind legs and were six feet tall and _hungry_.

Scott decided once he could feel his face again, he'd head on down to the DR and--

A single pink candy remained sitting on the table.

It glimmered ever so innocuously. Scott picked it up and held it carefully in his palm.

The sound of rustling wings could be heard outside in the hall. The idea formed before he could stop it.

Warren walked into the kitchen and tossed his keys onto the counter, "Hey, Scott." He said, glancing over as he opened the fridge and helped himself to a bottle of some unpronounceable and expensive imported water he kept in there. "What's that?"

Scott turned. "Kurt got a care-package from his mom and was sharing some candy."

This was wrong. This was underhanded. This was--

Warren.

And somehow, that made it OK.

"Want a piece?" The words left his lips unbidden. He held out the UFO.

"Sure." Warren snatched it up, "German, huh?" And popped it into his mouth.

His eyes went wide right before the UFO began to melt off several layers of epithial cells of the inside of his mouth.

Scott smiled. The foam would start soon.

He suddenly knew what song Bobby had been humming.

_Schadenfreude._


End file.
